


A way to do good again

by Em_Jaye



Series: The Long Way Around [31]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Fix-It, Historical References, Police Brutality, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Racism, Steve Rogers Feels, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em_Jaye/pseuds/Em_Jaye
Summary: Woody Allen once said, 'If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans." With that in mind, Darcy had to wonder if there was anyone who could make God laugh quite like Steve Rogers.April 1975: Therapy
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers
Series: The Long Way Around [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1402126
Comments: 73
Kudos: 212





	A way to do good again

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. So this is one of those fics that I felt was necessary if I was going to do Steve Rogers being stuck in the past any kind of justice. A character study of my favorite disaster. Doesn't mean I like it or that I had all that much fun writing it, tbh, especially with all the craziness going around. Naturally, there's a hint of Endgame salt as well. Just a hint.
> 
> But because I *did* have to do so much extra work for this one, here's what I researched:  
> (I kind of feel like Morgan Freeman in Batman Begins. "I just wanted you to know how hard it was. XD)  
> -Veteran's Affairs 1970-1975  
> -The entire history of the Black Panther Party  
> -Systemic racism in the Oakland PD and DA's office with special emphasis on their feelings toward the Panthers  
> -Racism/race relations in the mid 70s in general  
> -Treatment of returning Vietnam vets  
> -Mental health treatment/diagnosis of PTSD in soldiers or veterans  
> -Pomelo trees
> 
> So I've had, like, a SUPER fun few weeks in quarantine, you guys. You are always so wonderful and I'm so lucky to have such sweet people reading my stuff. I love you all.

It had been a minute since Steve had found himself in a jail cell. A standard jail cell—not one designed for genetically enhanced enemies of the state. By his memory, the last time had been in 1941 when he’d been arrested for getting beaten to a pulp for telling a guy to tip his waitress.

This was not how Steve had planned to spend his first day of spring break. When he’d woken up that morning, the forecast had called for rain. He thought he’d probably clean the apartment once he got back from the gym, keep looking through the paper and circling houses for sale that he could drag Darcy out of bed to look at on Saturday morning. Figure out what he was going to make his juniors do for their year-end project. Give Scrabble a healthy dose of head-scratchings. Call that restaurant and make a reservation for Darcy’s birthday—her real birthday, the one that was on April 30th and just around the corner—before he forgot again.

Nice, low-key Thursday. That had been the plan.

And yet, here he was, in a jail cell, waiting for Darcy to show up and bail him out.

He dropped his head. She was going to be pissed. He didn’t think she’d be too mad when she heard exactly _why_ he’d been arrested—it wasn’t like he’d punched that cop on _purpose_ —but the fact that he’d been arrested at all. That he was probably going to be charged with something that might come dangerously close to breaking their rules of blending in and not making too many waves.

But what was he supposed to do? Stand back and let the police brawl with a group of people who were just trying to run a soup kitchen? He’d been on his way back from the gym when he’d caught sight of the flashing blue and red lights and heard the clash of police and what looked to be kitchen volunteers. One in particular, who was getting a little too close to an officer, seeming to be daring him to escalate while vehemently denying they were acting on behalf of the Black Panther Party.

He could have kept walking— _should_ have kept walking. A clash between the police and the Panthers—actual party members or not—was not the kind of thing he was ever going to make better by joining in. And he may have kept walking if not for fate deciding that it had been too long since he’d been in over his head and giving him exactly what he needed to decide that he wanted to get involved after all.

In this instance, it was the cop deciding he’d had enough just before Steve reached the crowd and he raised his hands to shove his opponent squarely in the chest. The young man had fallen to the ground but sprang back up faster than Steve would have expected. There had been more shoving, more shouting, slurs and insults slung back and forth and somewhere in the middle of that, while Steve had been trying to break up what he could of the fray, his elbow had connected with the eye socket of the cop in question.

“They give you your phone call yet?” he asked his cellmate—the young man whose shoving had derailed his whole afternoon.

“Fuck you,” The kid—Steve felt okay calling him this, he couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-one—spat the words at the cement floor between them. His hands and elbows were scraped from where he’d hit the ground and a scowl twisted his expression.

Steve blinked. “Sorry?”

“No, you’re not,” his cellmate shot back, surprising him further. “You’re probably real fuckin’ proud of yourself, huh? Like you swooped in and saved some poor black kid from gettin’ his ass kicked by the cops?”

He felt his brow furrow in confusion. “…No? Not particularly.” He paused and studied the other man for a long moment. “Did you…” he coughed. “I mean. Were you there for an ass-kicking? Because if so—”

“It’s none a’ your business what I was there for,” he snapped. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

Steve was quiet. “Uh, yeah,” he moved a shoulder. “I guess that’s true.”

“So what? You want a thank you?”

“No,” he sat up and all the way back against the wall. He didn’t want a thank you, of course. He never wanted a thank you.

… Although he couldn’t remember the last time someone hadn’t been at least a _little_ appreciative.

Steve shook the thought away and trained his eyes on the corridor and the desk he could see from his position. A single man sat at the desk, tapping the edge of a pen in time to the sound of a nearby drip of rainwater. It was hypnotic. And annoying.

The arresting officers weren’t there, but that’s where they’d sat earlier. The one with a black eye—Officer Flanagan, he should remember that for his inevitable court date—glared at him while he called the hospital and waited for Darcy to come to the phone.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” she had said when he’d winced his way through the initial request for bail money.

“I would love nothing more than to tell you I’m joking,” he promised.

He’d felt the weight of Darcy’s sigh down to his bones through the phone. “Stevennnnnnn.”

“I can explain when you get here,” he went on, noticing the way Flanagan’s eyes kept falling to his watch. “Just—”

“Yeah,” she had cut him off, sounding deflated. “I’ll be down.”

She hadn’t told him she loved him, which was rare, even for a phone call. But he couldn’t really blame her for that.

He looked up again, his cellmate fidgeted uncomfortably on the opposite side of the holding cell. The younger man’s dark eyes were shifting quickly as if he was counting the four corners of their iron pen. His breathing had sped up and Steve noticed his hands were clenched as tightly as his jaw.

“You okay?” he asked, not caring that the question would likely get him snapped at again. To his surprise, his companion just clenched his jaw tighter and nodded. Steve frowned and felt something like sympathy twist in his gut. “Just take a deep breath,” he suggested, keeping his voice down. Another tight nod, but the other man only closed his eyes; his breathing didn’t slow. He watched him for a moment, realizing that his jaw clenched tighter each time the sound of dripping water echoed off the coffee can in which it was being collected. “Hey,” he cleared his throat, not daring to move to sit any closer. “Do me a favor,” he said carefully, remembering something Sam had made him do a few times. “Think about your feet.”

His cellmate frowned; his eyes still closed. “What?”

“Your feet,” Steve repeated, knowing he wouldn’t come close to the way Sam had once guided him through what he called a grounding exercise. “In your shoes. Spread your toes out as much as you can and count them.”

“I know how many fucking toes I have.” The reply was tight, ground through clenched teeth.

“Good,” Steve said amiably. “Just keep breathing and give it a try—then I promise I’ll stop talking to you.”

At the very least, that got him to take a deeper breath. Steve watched while he kept his eyes closed and appeared to be focusing on the request. Fifteen long seconds and five increasingly deeper breaths passed before the younger man’s fingers relaxed from their fists. It was another ten seconds before he unclenched his jaw.

“I’m here for Steve Grant,” Darcy’s voice floated down the corridor and surprised them both, snapping their attention toward the door. “I’m his wife.”

“Sorry,” the cop at the desk stopped drumming his pen to Steve’s relief. “He assaulted a police officer—he’s going to be here until he’s arraigned. Not sure he’s allowed to have visitors.”

His heart sank and he dropped his head into his hands before another familiar voice chimed in. “Would that answer be different if she brought his attorney?”

He sat up again and frowned in confusion. That sounded like Tina. But Tina wasn’t an attorney…

Nevertheless, he heard a sigh and the scrape of a metal chair against the ground and then a jangle of keys before an ill-fitting uniform in squeaky shoes approached the cell. “Grant,” he said, sounding irritated. “Your lawyer’s here.” He coughed. “And your wife.”

He unlocked the door and motioned for Steve to follow him back down the now-empty corridor. They went into the next hallway together where Darcy and Tina were waiting beside an open door. Darcy’s arms were crossed over her chest. Tina offered him a bright smile that didn’t reveal that she _wasn’t_ a lawyer yet and, to the best of his knowledge, was still a clerk at the public defender’s office while she went to law school at night. “Hey Steve,” she said cheerfully. “I’m going to find your arresting officer. Did he already take your written statement?”

“Uh,” he blinked, confused. “Yeah. He should have it with him.”

“And they didn’t officially charge or process you yet?”

“No,” he shook his head. “Not yet.”

She brightened further. “Great. I’ll be back.”

The open door had a small sign that read _Visitation_ stuck to it and inside was an empty table and three chairs. It wasn’t the interrogation room Steve had expected. Darcy gave him a look and went in, making him almost wish he didn’t have to follow her. But he did, and the officer who’d escorted him closed the door behind them.

Darcy dropped her elbow onto the aluminum table and ran her nails through her hair. “I thought you were going to clean today,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence between them.

Steve sighed and sat down across from her. “That was the plan.”

They were quiet again before she shook her head and finally looked at him. “It’s not like I don’t know that it _physically_ pains you to not be in a fist fight every few months—”

“I _swear_ that’s not what I was looking for—” he interrupted her.

“And yet, here we are.”

“What do you want me to say, Darcy?” he demanded. “I’m sorry I stopped a few innocent people from a police beating? I’m not sorry, I’m not going to lie and say that I am. Those people were minding their own business—the cops had no right to try breaking them up like that.”

“You didn’t have to start throwing punches,” she snapped back.

“I didn’t _start_ by throwing punches,” he said. “I was just trying to keep that racist piece of shit—"

“You can’t stop every awful thing that people do to each other and your plan to lay low and blend in doesn’t work if you have to insert yourself into every injustice that—”

“Well who am I if I don’t?” he asked. The question cut through the room, derailing whatever Darcy had planned to say next. He hadn’t meant to ask that—to give a voice to the question that had been rattling around in his head for what felt like years—but now that he had, there was no taking it back.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know. He’d been without his shield and his title now for almost longer than he’d had it and he’d been trying to figure out if that meant anything. The shield itself was just a piece of metal. The name Captain America, just a silly title that had sold war bonds and stuck when he had a team to lead. But together they’d meant something. To a lot of people. Not just to him. More than anything, they’d meant he _could_ do something about all the wrongs that crept up in the world. That he could stand in front of someone in need of protection and actually _do_ something. On his own, Steve Rogers had never been able to do anything that had made a difference. Lately, he wasn’t sure that Steve Grant would be able to do much better.

Darcy’s mouth opened for a moment and then closed again. Apparently, she didn’t know either.

“I know I’m not—” he stopped and shook his head. “I like our life, okay?” he tried again, correcting himself. “I love it. I love being married to you, and teaching, and getting to have so much… _normal_ for once in my life.” He hesitated because anything he needed to say next had to start with _but_. And starting like that made it sound like all the things he just said were somehow not enough.

Darcy lifted her eyebrows. “But…?”

He took a deep breath in to steady himself. “But I’m still…” he wanted there to be another word for it, but none was coming. “I’m still _me,_ Darcy. I can’t help it. I know I can’t—” he exhaled heavily. “I know I can’t stop every bad thing that happens between now and 2011 but I can’t just pretend I don’t see it, either.”

Across the table, Darcy was quiet while she rubbed at her temples. “I don’t _want_ you to pretend like you don’t see what’s wrong with the world,” she said finally, her gaze and voice still directed downward before she looked up at him. “You know that, right? I don’t even think you’re capable of that. You wouldn’t be _you_ if you just hid in the house all day pretending everything is fine when it so obviously isn’t.”

Now it was his turn. “But…?”

She sighed. “But Steve, I’m just trying to think practically. And there literally _can’t_ be a record of you doing this shit in 1975 when the entire world knows for a fact that your face and fingerprints are attached to the rest of you, hidden under a glacier somewhere.” Her hand ran tiredly over her face again. “Seriously, I don’t care if you want to beat all the bad guys bloody if it makes you feel useful but just…” she shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s figure out how you can do it without getting arrested.” Her lips turned downward in a thoughtful frown. “Or, y’know, murdered.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled again. “That’s probably a good idea.”

The door opened as he was reaching for her hand, before the silence that drifted down in between them got to be too much. Two officers—one with a set of sergeant stripes on his sleeve, and Officer Flanagan—and Tina, sporting another wide grin. The sergeant—his nametag read Bowers—cleared his throat and looked between Steve and Darcy. “You Steve Grant?” he asked gruffly. Steve nodded. “You’re free to go.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t need to be,” Bowers said, jerking his head backward, beckoning them to follow. Behind him, Flanagan and his black eye looked like he’d rather be doing anything other than walking down the hall behind his commanding officer. “Seems to be a misunderstanding—no need to get any paperwork involved.”

“I’m not…sure I understand?” Steve admitted when they returned to the corridor at the end of which housed the holding cell.

“Case of mistaken identity,” Bowers said. “You and your friend aren’t affiliated with the Panthers, correct?”

Steve glanced down at his entirely Caucasian body. “Uh, no. Last I checked.”

“And the man you were arrested with?” Bowers asked. “David Lowe?”

“Also no,” he said easily. “I’m pretty sure he mentioned that before Officer Flanagan—”

“Mistaken identity,” the sergeant said, speaking up over Steve’s attempt at accusation. “You’re both free to go. Apologies for the misunderstanding.”

The cell was unlocked again, and David Lowe was released. They were both handed back their watches, wallets, and belts and shown the door. Knowing David was trailing behind them wasn’t enough to keep Steve from asking the first of many questions that bubbled to the top of his mind as they made their way out. “Tina, did I miss the part where you graduated from law school and passed the bar exam?”

“Nope,” she answered with confidence. “Wasn’t necessary to get those charges dropped.”

“But you…said you were?”

She shook her head. “Technically, all I did was ask if the answer would be different _if_ Darcy had brought your attorney with her.” She coughed delicately. “It’s not my fault he didn’t ask if _I_ was that attorney.”

“Wait a minute,” David Lowe had taken a few steps to catch up with them. “You’re not a lawyer?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I just work for the PD’s office.”

David looked concerned. “So, you just lied to the cops for us?”

Tina looked scandalized. “I would never,” she said. “I memorized the district court judges’ schedules,” she said as if that explained everything. “And I reminded Sergeant Bowers that his best friend, Judge Bittner, is out on medical leave—he had an appendectomy last Friday.”

“Okay…”

“Bittner’s the one who always takes the cops’ side,” Darcy filled in, slipping her hand into Steve’s as they stepped out into the gray afternoon light. “He’s the one they want if there’s even a chance they might have done something a little less than kosher.”

“But since he’s on medical leave,” Tina continued without missing a beat, “the DA would have had to take his chances with either Garcia, Urban, or Morrow. Garcia’s brother was killed by the police six years ago, Urban’s usually pretty pro-establishment but he’s three hundred years old and only hears a case a day _sometimes_ , and Morrow is black and he and the DA are _not_ fans of one another and, well,” she shrugged. “The DA only likes to file charges on a sure thing where the cops are involved. He just scraped by to win his reelection,” she reminded as the door swung shut behind them. “He’s trying to pad his record for the next one, so the rumor is that he doesn’t even get out from behind his desk unless he knows for a fact he can win.”

“That’s fucked up,” David said, sounding on the verge of impressed.

“It is!” Tina agreed cheerfully. “But it’s also what kept you both from spending the night in jail.” She raised her right fist briefly. "Fight the power."

David let out a sound that was half-choking, half-laugh.

“Thank you,” Steve said, finding his voice again. “Seriously, Tina. Thank you for coming down and helping me—” he coughed. “Uh, us—out.”

“Yeah,” David added with a small smile. “Sorry, I don’t—uh—”

Tina extended her hand. “Christina Connor,” she shook his hand firmly. “My friends call me Tina.” Her eyes darted across the street at large clock at the bank on the corner. “And I’ve gotta get back to work.” She dropped David’s hand and pulled Darcy in for a quick hug. “I love you.”

“You’re a life saver, T,” she said and kissed Tina’s cheek.

“I know. And hey,” she swatted at Steve’s arm when she pulled away from Darcy. “You owe her for calling me, man. Big time.”

“Well aware,” Steve assured her.

Darcy watched Tina scurry down the street back toward the courthouse before she squeezed Steve’s hand. “I’ve got to get back too.” She lifted her eyebrows. “Think you can stay out of handcuffs until I get home?”

“That was an—um—” Steve coughed. “An interesting way you chose to phrase that question.”

She stretched up and brushed her lips to his. “Maybe I just wanted to give you something to think about for the rest of the day.”

“Is this part of me owing you?” he asked, hopeful this teasing she was doing meant she wasn’t irreparably angry with him.

“Maaaaaybe,” she dragged the word out as she let go of his hand and backed away. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He waited until she’d ducked into the car and drove off before he shook his head and turned to get started on the long walk back to the apartment.

“How’d you do that?”

The question stopped him a few feet from the stairs of the precinct. He turned back around, surprised to find that David Lowe was still there, seemingly waiting for him. He felt his brow furrow. “Do what?”

“Pull me out like that—” he nodded back toward the building. “Telling me to think about my feet,” he reminded. “How’d you know what was going on?”

Steve stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and wondered how he was supposed to respond. No one was going to start saying the words ‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder’ for at least another five years—maybe longer, he couldn’t remember. “Just…uh…” he shrugged. “Takes one to know one,” he decided out loud. “I get ‘em too,” he added. “Sometimes.”

David nodded again, more slowly, understanding. “Well thanks,” he said after a moment.

“Sure,” Steve watched his former cellmate start off down the street in the opposite direction. He felt something twist again in his gut, something that reminded him of how angry he used to be, how alone he had felt, how scary it had been—like he’d never be able to trust his mind to stay in one place again. He raised his voice. “Was it the water?”

David stopped and turned back around slowly. “What?”

“The water,” Steve repeated. “That drip in the ceiling,” he added. “Sound it made hitting that coffee can. Is that what triggered your flashback?”

David took a few steps back toward him, cautiously curious. “No,” he shook his head and waited until he was standing only a few feet from Steve. “That cop hitting his pen on the table,” he admitted. “Just uh—” he shuffled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Just sounded like something I don’t like remembering.” He looked Steve up and down. “How many tours’d you serve?”

“Few too many,” Steve said as honestly as he could.

“And you—what? Came back and turned into some kinda shrink?”

He laughed. “No, I’m not a shrink. I’m an art teacher. I was just lucky enough to have a friend who taught me to how tell what was real and what was just a bad memory.”

“It’s not like that happens a lot,” David said quickly. “I’m not…I’m not crazy or anything.”

“I didn’t think you were,” he said evenly. “But if you ever want to talk to someone—”

But David was already shaking his head. “No, no, man, I’m good.” He held up a hand. “Just a bad day.”

It was Steve’s turn to nod. He felt almost disappointed as he did. “Sure,” he shrugged. “No problem.” He lifted a hand in response. “Take care of yourself.”

David’s hands went into his pockets. “Yeah,” he nodded again. “Thanks.”

Steve watched him walk away a second time, wondering if there was something else he could have said to make him want to keep talking.

***

It was two nights later that Darcy folded back her section of the realtor’s guide and cleared her throat. “Okay, here’s one. Charming two-bedroom fix-up on quiet street. Cozy living room with fireplace and spacious kitchen with breakfast nook.” She looked up and he felt her eyes on him while he read the same listing for the fourth time. “Charming fix-up basically means it’s a shamble in Hell,” from the corner of his eye he saw her tilt her head thoughtfully to one side. “But I’ve always wanted a breakfast nook.”

He read the words in front of him a fifth time.

“Steve?” Her foot slid across the couch and nudged his leg. “Did you get any of that?”

“Uh-huh,” he lied, echoing the only words he’d really registered. “Breakfast nook. Sounds good.”

“Problem with a breakfast nook,” she went on casually, “is how you can be executed for trying to each lunch or dinner there…”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s…” he stopped and set the paper down. “Wait—what did you say?”

Darcy smiled. “I said you’re a liar and you’re definitely not listening to me.”

He sighed and dropped the paper onto the coffee table. “No, you’re right,” he rubbed at his eyes. “I’m not. I’m sorry.”

She followed suit and tossed her realtor’s guide onto the table too. The pen rolled from between the pages onto the ground. Scrabble pounced immediately and began batting it around. “What’s up?”

“I’m just…thinking,” he muttered, shaking his head. When he glanced over, Darcy’s gaze had not wavered, assuring him he’d have to give her more than just that. “About the guy I got arrested with.”

“Yeah,” Darcy shifted to stretch both of her legs out and rest her feet in his lap. “He was pretty hot.” Steve snorted. He let his hands rest on her ankles while she leaned her cheek against the back of their couch. “Sorry,” she said softly. “What about him?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head again. “He just…seemed like he’s dealing with a lot.”

“He probably is,” she agreed. “I mean, if he was in Vietnam like you said…” she frowned deeper. “It’s one thing to read about how they were all treated when they came home but it’s another to see it.”

Just like so many things.

He hadn’t been prepared for that. For the men who came home from war in this decade to be called killers and monsters, to be kept from jobs and treated like outcasts, most just for having the bad luck to get drafted.

It wasn’t that Steve didn’t understand the public’s response. They’d never seen a war on television every night. They’d never been given so much information that wasn’t draped in lies and sparkling with propaganda. They’d never had a conflict go on for so long with so little to show for it. Most of them had never been confronted with the reality of what it meant to go to be a soldier and seeing it every night—even through the lens of a news broadcast—had disgusted people. As it should.

But that was just what war was. That was the deal—that’s what you signed up for, whether willingly or because of a draft. It was ugly and brutal and painful and no matter what anyone said, no one _wanted_ to do it. Maybe it was easier to stomach when the cause was more noble, but the result was the same no matter what and no one—from the decorated generals giving the orders, to the acne-scarred GI’s who had to carry them out—would be there if they didn’t have to be. If the government or the president or just the circumstances didn’t demand it.

“Just sucks that there’s not really any resources available for the guys just coming back,” Darcy went on, interrupting his thoughts. “No, like, person who understands the benefit of therapy and knows what they’re going through and can help them deal with their PTSD a few decades before they’d even be diagnosed…” she trailed off, letting the words hang between them.

Steve stared at her. “That’s a pretty tall order, Darcy.”

She shrugged. “You’re a pretty tall guy.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Nope.”

“I’m not even a counselor.”

“You used to be.”

“Yeah, and I sucked at it.”

“I don’t believe that,” she countered. “And I’m not saying go track that one guy down and force him to talk to you,” she went on before he could argue. “Actually, I’m not saying anything at all.”

“You could have fooled me,” he commented, with a half-smile.

“I’m not,” she insisted. “I’m just telling you what you’re already thinking.”

Absently he picked up her left foot and pressed his thumbs into her arch, enjoying the little purr of delight that came from her closed lips that accompanied any massage he offered her. She settled deeper into her side of the lopsided couch. “You don’t always know what I’m thinking,” he muttered, not wanting to admit that she might have been right without him even knowing it.

Darcy scoffed. “I’m your wife, dude,” she reminded plainly. “Reading the thoughts that you blatantly broadcast over that criminally handsome face of yours is all part of the job.” She didn’t wait for him to respond before she reached over and picked up the realtor’s guide again. “Just keep thinking about it,” she suggested. “And I’ll tell you about this two-bedroom bungalow with peach and pomelo trees in the backyard.”

Steve smiled and went on rubbing her feet. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a pomelo,” he admitted.

“Neither have I,” she said cheerfully. “But we’d be swimming in them if we buy this place.”

***

It was almost two weeks later that Steve got a shove from the universe. Tuesdays were Darcy’s night to work late. Usually that meant he worked late too, catching up on grading or offering to supervise detention if no one else was willing. But that Tuesday, all had been quiet and caught up at the school and Steve had found himself without much to do and no desire to cook for just himself.

He and Darcy had both spent so much time at the Mitchell’s diner that, even though it had been well over a year since Darcy had worked there, it still felt a little like coming home. Ray was on the grill and offered him a wave with a spatula when he noticed him through the pass-bar. “Junie call you two about coming for dinner?” he asked over the hiss of the griddle and the general hubbub of the crowded restaurant.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Next Sunday, right?”

Ray shrugged. “Beats me,” he admitted. “Whenever Carla’s coming down.”

Steve grinned. “We’ll be there.” Darcy had already put it on the calendar.

He was halfway through a plate of fish and chips when he felt someone looking at him from a few tables away. He swallowed and looked up slowly from the book he’d been reading, surprised to find David Lowe studying him. Recognition sparked in David’s eyes and he raised a hand in greeting before he got up and picked up the check on the table and a bookbag slung across the chair. “I thought that was you,” he said as he made his way across the small dining room. “Guy who punched a cop for me.”

To Steve’s surprise, a hand was extended. “Guy I…punched a cop for,” he echoed with a half-smile as they shook.

“David’s fine,” David shrugged a shoulder.

“Steve,” he said before he glanced at the empty seat across from him in the booth. “I’m not waiting for anyone if you wanna—”

But he shook his head again. “No, no, man, I don’t want to interrupt your meal. I just thought—” he stopped and then shrugged again. “I don’t know. Thought I’d say hi.”

“Hi,” he echoed. David shifted his weight from one foot to another while Steve decided it couldn’t get any more awkward and cleared his throat. “Y’know, I meant what I said,” he spoke up again the moment before David turned away again. “About…uh—if you need someone to talk to, I mean?”

Again, the offer was scoffed away. “Nah, I’m good. It’s like I said before—it was just…” he shook his head. “It was just a bad day.” He didn’t turn to leave though. He shifted again and stopped, thoughtfully. “You’re not with that weird church on MacArthur, are you?”

Steve choked out a laugh. “Uh, no. Definitely not.”

“So, you just…really want to be my friend?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

He shrugged. “Just figured I’d offer. One soldier to another.”

“You know I don’t need a shrink or anything—I really am fine.”

“I’m not a shrink,” he repeated, attempting a casual tone and motioned with his chin to the empty seat again. “I just don’t like eating alone.”

The younger man stared at him for what felt like a long time. Curiosity and suspicion painted onto his face. Cautiously, his eyes narrowed and looking like he was almost certain he’d regret it, David set his bag down beside the booth and slowly sat down. The check he’d picked up from his own table, he twirled between his fingers, seeming to debate with himself before he cleared his throat. “So, since we’re friends now,” he said only slightly less suspicious than before. “You mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go for it.”

“How long’s it been since you got back?”

He pretended to try to remember while he prayed he could tell a convincing enough lie. “’Bout five years,” he decided aloud. That was true. It had been almost five years exactly since he’d actually been in battle—since the last thing that still woke him screaming had happened. “How about you?”

“I was on one of the last planes out—over there right to the end.” He gave Steve another studying look. “You said something the other day—” The words were halting, like he was talking himself out of every other one. “What happened in the cell…you called it a flashback?”

 _Shit,_ he thought. Was that the right word? Were people saying that yet? He coughed. “That’s just—uh—that friend I mentioned—that’s what he calls them. When I get stuck in a memory,” he went on hurriedly. “Can’t tell what’s real and what’s in my head.”

His companion looked more thoughtful. “That’s still going on after five years?”

“Not as much as before,” he said, not wanting to admit that he still woke up soaked in sweat, with the smell of blood and gunpowder fresh in his nose and throat and the weight of someone he should have saved dead at his feet once every other month. Not nearly as often as it had been. But he wasn’t cured _._ He knew that ‘better’ was really the best he could hope for. “And at least now I know how to get out of them. Most of the time.”

David smirked. “Like thinking about your feet?”

Steve returned the smile. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Like that.”

“I—uh—” David coughed. “I wanted to say I was sorry, by the way.” Another short cough. “For how I was acting before your lawyer showed up.” He looked up from the crack in the table. “I don’t trust white people—no offense—but you didn’t deserve me giving you shit like that.”

“Uh,” Steve blinked. “None taken,” he said after a second. “And don’t worry about it. I don’t usually make a great first impression either.”

He smiled again. “That how you usually make friends? Get arrested together?”

Steve laughed. “It’s been surprisingly effective in the past.”

They talked for the rest of the time it took Steve to finish his meal. Light stuff—the undergraduate degree David was pursuing in biology, the kind of art Steve taught, where David was from, neighborhoods Steve and Darcy should avoid when looking for a house. Once he started talking and relaxed a little bit, David was nothing like the hostile, angry young man he’d been when they first met. He was older than Steve had originally thought, too, turning twenty-five in May. He was bright and considerate and funny in a self-deprecating way that reminded Steve of himself, especially in the way his jokes were part of his adamant refusal to admit he might ever need help.

It wasn’t until Steve had checked his watch and announced that he had to go and pick Darcy up from work, that David looked to be fighting his words again. “So those other friends you’ve got,” he said when they stood up at the same time, Steve grabbing his jacket while David picked up his bag. “They all vets too?”

He smiled, forcing himself not to think about how much that question twisted his heart. “More or less,” he answered. It was easier to sound nonchalant when it wasn’t entirely a lie. “Unfortunately, not around here, though,” he added, in case there was a follow-up question.

David nodded. “Guess that’s easier,” he said thoughtfully. “Being around other guys who get it. Don’t feel like you have to hide the damage all the time.”

The words slipped out so casually that Steve didn’t really catch their weight until he’d taken a few steps toward the register. He stopped and turned back. “Yeah,” he agreed after a moment. “It’s hard to feel like you always have to keep that up.”

They each paid their bill and stepped outside before David spoke again. “You said your wife works late on Tuesdays?” Steve nodded and he continued. “If you’re around next week and don’t feel like eating by yourself,” he shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe,” Steve smiled as they shook hands. “Take care of yourself.”

He was already at the diner when Steve arrived the following week. And the week after that, he brought his cousin, who’d lost his left arm in Laos in ‘72. After a month, Ray pulled him aside and asked Steve if he minded if he told his nephew to stop in some Tuesday, adding in his quiet, gruff way, that it seemed like he could use a few guys who knew what he was going through.

No one called it therapy. They just kept showing up. First to the back-corner booth where Steve and David had started to claim each week out of habit, then to the space around it, pulling up other tables and chairs. A few more here, a few more there. By the middle of summer, someone mentioned they volunteered at a community center; there was more space there, he said, a room they could use once a week as an alternative to taking up tables at Mitchell’s.

It wasn’t therapy—at least not the kind Steve would become used to in the future. (Not that he ever went.) He was pretty sure it wasn’t nearly as helpful as the kind of experience Sam would be able to offer the vets in DC someday—where they’d have access to better social programs and genuine, comprehensive mental healthcare if they needed it, but it was something. A space to talk to each other. To listen. To have a place where they didn’t have to hide the damage.

And it was a way for Steve to feel like he was doing something again—even if all he really did week after week was set up chairs and occasionally chime in. Something useful. Something that was making a difference at least in the lives of the dozen men who kept showing up.

It was a way to do good again without the possibility of ending up in handcuffs.

Just as Darcy had requested.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, not hammer on the fact that this fic took a lot out of me, but I even called my public defender DAD (my DAAAAAAAD, you guys. We don't even like each other) to ask him about whether or not Tina's clever reminder re: the cops' favorite judge was something that could have happened in real life. He laughed really hard and said yes. 
> 
> Hope you liked it!
> 
> Come play with me on tumblr: @idontgettechnology and join me at ishipitpod.com for weekly podcast on fandom and fanfic by yours truly.
> 
> *kisses*


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